


Orange Blossoms

by wirefern



Category: Phantom Thread (2017)
Genre: Champagne, Crack Treated Seriously, Cuddling, Dom/sub Undertones, Family Bonding, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Personal Attention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-06-08 22:58:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15253923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wirefern/pseuds/wirefern
Summary: Alma and Cyril help Reynolds recover after a fashion emergency in New York.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay....finished, finally. 
>   * Title changed; OC given an actual name.
>   * There's a chapter two now.
>   * That's about it for additions and changes/edits.
> 

> 
> If you read this entire thing, thank you. I hope you get a giggle out of it.
> 
> * * *

"No!" Alma cried. "You can't do that to him!"

And then, Cyril's candid reply: "There's no choice. He'll survive. He won't like it....but he'll survive." 

~

There really was no other choice, and so Reynolds was sent away to suffer in the humid hell of a New York summer.

This is how it happened: Cyril called Reynolds into her office. He slumped into a chair, annoyed by the interruption, for he'd been in the middle of his work. And then there was Alma, standing beside Cyril's desk--an obvious co-conspirator in whatever they were up to-- hands tucked behind her back, face unmoving, unreadable.

Cyril removed her glasses, smoothed her hair behind her ears, and said in an even, emotionless voice, "Barbara Rose called. She'd like you to make her another dress."

Reynolds shrugged. "Oh, goody. When will she be here? Not so soon, I hope. I'll need to brace myself for it."

"She's not coming here. She said she hasn't the time to travel to London. She wants you to go to New York City and make it for her there."

He closed his sketchbook, slipping his glasses into his pocket: digesting what he'd heard. After a moment spent gathering himself together, he replied: "The bloody hell I'll go to New York for fucking  _Barbara Rose!_ "

But he couldn't win this fight. Somehow, Cyril had managed to convince Barbara to forgive Reynolds for stealing her wedding dress and stop threatening to sue the Woodcocks for said theft. In return, Barbara Rose wanted Reynolds in her own house, as her guest--or, more accurately, her captive-- for the time it took him to finish yet another dress for her.

Reynolds looked toward his wife, desperate. "Alma!" he cried.

"She was our best client. We need her back." Alma calmly told him, as though she'd had  _nothing at all to do_  with taking Barbara's wedding dress in the first place!

So Reynolds flew from London to New York on a Boeing Stratocruiser and oh, how he was tormented. Reynolds would make Cyril pay, and Alma, as well, for taking Cyril's side. If he could have brought wrath down on Barbara Rose, he would have done that, too. However, Barbara didn't care how Reynolds felt or what happened to him. During her dress fittings, she only went on and on about herself: the many times her heart had been broken, her disappointing marriages and face-lifts. She jerked the fabric around, grabbed it in handfuls, as though she wanted to damage the garment before he could even finish it.

" _Stand still_ , Barbara," he repeated ad nauseam, and "Don't  _do_  that," as he tugged her hand away from the collar, from the hem. Reynolds was upset because he'd hoped Barbara would give him a lot of attention when he agreed to come to New York, stay in her penthouse, and make her a dress, all at her convenience. He despised her, but he'd assumed she'd treat him well enough and maybe introduce him to some interesting New York people. This did not occur. She talked to him as though he were a servant, and he faded into the background of the house along with the servants.

Reynolds occasionally had to take a cab to 7th avenue to fetch fabric, ribbon and other accoutrements from the garment district. The streets were hot and crowded, lined with workshops where rows of women bent over sewing machines, as well as quiet ateliers on the upper stories of buildings, where film stars and debutants had work done by New York's finest designers. Reynolds left Barbara's penthouse in the morning for this destination, neatly dressed in his lightest flannel suit, and he returned drenched in sweat, his bowtie half undone, utterly exhausted. 

Barbara allowed him to hire a pattern cutter and a seamstress to assist him. They were both immigrants, but Reynolds had no idea where they'd immigrated from because they did not speak English (or at least pretended they couldn't speak English in order to avoid talking to him). He missed Nana and Biddy. He was very lonely. He had no appetite and lived on martinis for seven weeks. He was sick from drinking for the first time in his life. Being sick reminded him of Alma, and he cried. What a nightmare his life had become!

Yes, he'd make Alma and Cyril suffer by not eating, not sleeping, and drinking too much. He'd make himself terribly ill and weak and leave them guilt-ridden for the damage they'd done to him. For good measure, he also decided to stop shaving. 

In the end, in this miserable haze, he accomplished one of his greatest creations: a floor-length gown of midnight blue satin, with a bateau neckline and three-quarter sleeves (snug-fitting fabric that would never be used as a napkin or to remove lipstick!) When Barbara wore it during her final fitting, she was almost beautiful.

"Well, Barbara," he said, rolling back on his heals, admiring his work. "I believe our debt is settled!"

Then he was free, finally! And he'd be in Alma's arms in less than twenty-four hours. Thinking about her made him hungry. There was a proper meal on the airplane, served on china plates: a savory consumme, lobster thermidor, ice cream. He devoured it all and then slept for the remainder of the flight with the confidence of knowing he'd accomplished something significant for his family by enduring the sweltering torture of a New York summer. He could play this card with Cyril and Alma for months; perhaps for the rest of his life! Those two would spoil him and fuss over him and make it all worth it!

~

_meanwhile, in London..._

Even at sunset the thermometer barely moved below thirty degrees Celsius, and it was only slightly cooler in the storage room where Alma was considering bolts of fabric, spreading them across the table. She'd sketched out a dress for herself, a design she'd seen in a dream: a daring dress, entirely unlike anything else ever made by the House of Woodcock...

Alma heard the steady click of Cyril's heals on the marble floor, and looked up before the woman entered the room. A tall, straight-spined girl followed close behind her.

“Here: This is Garnet. A new fitting model for the upcoming collection," Cyril stated. This was not a suggestion; it was an announcement.

Alma looked at the new model; early twenties, with the gamine haircut that was becoming popular at the time. She wore a sundress and sandals. Had Cyril found her in a park? By the sea-shore?

“Alma, come with us. She’ll need her measurements taken.”

Alma trailed the pair into the fitting room. Cyril closed the door, turned on the light over the full-length mirror, and picked up her heavy book, which contained the measurement of dozens of women stretching back over many years.

The new model stepped out of her sandals and onto the box, confident, experienced. And then she removed her dress. She pulled it right over her head and tossed it over the privacy screen that she'd ignored.

The model wore no corset or brassiere. No panties, either. She stood on the box like an artist's model, not a fitting model; completely nude and unashamed. She was beautiful.

Alma worked hard to keep her face in a neutral expression, but it was impossible to hide her shock. This situation was absurd! 

Alma turned toward Cyril, but Cyril did not return her glance. Instead, the woman sat, slipped on her glasses, crossed her ankles, looked to her bewildered sister-in-law and said, “Well, I haven’t got all night, Alma.”

Garnet appeared impatient as well, and bored. Alma took hold of the tape measure and began in the order she’d memorized. She hesitated before pulling the measuring tape snug around the young woman's rib cage. Her nipples stood out, her skin cool. Everyone Alma had ever measured had at least a bit of fabric covering their breasts. There was no way for Alma to take the bust measurement without touching the woman's nipples. It was startling enough to see a set of breasts other than Alma's own, much less to touch them.

She quickly stretched the tape and called out the number for Cyril to pencil down.

Without instruction, the model raised her arm for its measurement. Alma caught the scent of light perspiration and something like crushed petals.

“I like your perfume,” Alma said quietly.

From her chair, Cyril said, “Neroli. Bitter orange.”

In a bored voice, Garnet echoed, “Yes. Neroli.”

Alma knelt to take the waist and hip measurements. The young woman's pubic hair was untrimmed, and this, too, gave off the scent of orange blossoms. Alma tilted her face up toward the model, embarrassed and confused by her own attraction.

Meeting Alma's eyes, and as if seeing her for the first time, Garnet said, in a slightly raised voice--obviously directed toward Cyril-- “She looks like a young Marlene Dietrich, doesn’t she?”

“What?” Alma said, and, from behind her, Cyril replied, “On her especially good days, yes. There is a resemblance.”

The model reached down to trace the curve of Alma's neck with gentle fingers, brushing a loose strand of hair from Alma's forehead.

A hot flush came over Alma's face. This was too much. She stood up and looked at Cyril, who raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not Reynolds," Alma said clearly. "I  _know_  when I am being teased."

Cyril sighed, irritated. She set her book and pencil on the table and leaned forward: "Alma, my brother is farther away from you than he ever has been and likely ever will be. And I guarantee, when he returns, I doubt you'll ever have another night free of him. Tonight you have an opportunity to be with--" Cyril hesitated for a moment, "-- a  _different_  person." 

"What makes you think I have any interest in being with a different...person?" Alma forced her eyes to meet Cyril's. 

"Because you married Reynolds, of course. The confirmed, incurable bachelor," Cyril answered, and the model softly laughed.

"I love Reynolds."

"Did I say you didn't love him?"

Behind Alma, Garnet took a pack of cigarettes and matches from the pocket of her discarded dress and crossed the room barefoot, naked, to hand a cigarette to Cyril and light it for her; a smooth, natural movement, a practiced routine between the two of them.

"Look at her blush!" the model said. She placed her hand on the back of Cyril's chair. Cyril exhaled smoke. They both stared at Alma, waiting.

Cyril was right; it was unlikely Alma would ever have a chance like this again. Reynolds’ lovemaking repertoire left much to be desired—literally—yet he was also a phenomenally jealous man. Attempting a fling when he was home might not be worth the fit he’d throw if he found out…but he wasn’t home.  Alma was free.

"I think I'd like....some wine?" Alma said, hesitantly. "And not here. Not in my bedroom, either."

"Of course not in your room," Cyril said dryly. "Use mine." She stood up, walked to Alma, and kissed her on the mouth. "I'll leave a bottle and glasses on the bedside table. Enjoy." Another kiss on Alma's startled lips--fast and firm--and then she was gone.

The orange blossom-scented young woman came to Alma, took her hand, and smiled. 

~

Making a telephone connection between New York and London took nearly thirty minutes and cost a small fortune. For this investment of time and money, Cyril was rewarded with an outraged diatribe from Reynolds, all profanity and threats. Though he'd be home soon, his anger over being sent to New York hadn't lessened a bit. When the receiver was passed to Alma, he collapsed into sobs. Alma's heart ached thinking of how far he was from her, how alone and unhappy.

"Oh, my darling. It's only a little more than a week. Then you'll be home, and never have to go away, ever again."

When the call ended, Alma and Cyril sat across the kitchen table from each other, sipping tea, thinking.

"He sounds quite poorly, doesn't he?" Cyril observed.

"Yes."

"This isn't easy for him."

"It wouldn't be easy for any of us. New York is so far away. And to fly in an airplane, too, across the ocean… he's quite brave."

Cyril reached across the table and covered Alma's hand with her own. She gave Alma's hand a pat, a gentle squeeze. Holding it for a little longer, her face calm, and Alma knowing the importance of this simple gesture.

Alma remembered an evening when she was in a hurry to get dressed for dinner, knowing that Cyril and Reynolds were waiting for her in the parlor. She'd grabbed her shoes, her purse, her gloves, and rushed down the stairs in silent stockinged feet. She entered the room with soundless, bare footsteps, and caught the siblings in a quiet moment, sitting close together on the sofa--hip to hip--and Cyril's hand covered Reynolds' hand just like this. How elegant they both were: Cyril in a velvet dress with draped sleeves, Reynolds in a crisp suit and bow tie. They were a matched set, a delicate pair. The look on Reynolds' face at the time had been one drained of energy--this must during one of his manic storms of work--and gratitude, the reassurance that no matter what happened, Cyril would be there to bring order to his world.

"It's getting late." Cyril rose with a sigh. She put her hands on the back of Alma's shoulders and kissed Alma's cheek. Alma tilted her face up, and received a closed-mouth kiss on the lips. 

"Good night, Alma," the woman said, and Alma replied, "Good night."

Alma gathered up the tea tray and brought it to the kitchen. With Reynolds gone, Alma's relationship with Cyril had changed; that could not be denied. A woman had loved Alma in Cyril's own bed, laughed and tumbled with Alma between Cyril's sheets. What did that make Alma to Cyril? Alma couldn't pin this down; she understood, however, that this transformation of their relationship had happened naturally and inevitably.

Alma had truly been initiated into the family now. 

~

Alma drove Reynolds' car to Heathrow airport--on the edge of the city, in a field-- to meet his plane out on the tarmac on a warm, gloomy evening.

It took Alma a moment to recognize Reynolds when he exited the plane. In fact, she initially felt embarrassed for whoever had to greet this man, bearded and in a wrinkled suit. When she realized this was her Reynolds, a jolt of confusion went through her. Though thinner (how was that even possible?), his body felt nearly the same in her arms, and he smelled the same, but he seemed to have aged quite a bit and, furthermore, he looked like a stranger with his full salt-and-pepper beard.

"Oh, Alma, let's go to the restaurant. I want a steak. Take us to the restaurant, please," Reynolds directed her, after their initial, hesitant embrace, when they were in the car--Alma in the driver's seat.

"No, not yet. We have to get you....freshened up," she said hesitantly, eyeing him. "You look--" she pondered various English words, trying to select one both kind and honest. "--ruffled?"

He frowned, but ran his hands through his hair, conveying that he understood her concern. She reached for his face and stroked his beard carefully, as though it weren't really a part of him. He closed his eyes and pulled her to him--the gear lever jamming into her thigh--and kissed her. She nuzzled into his beard and his neck.

Alma wore a perfume that Reynolds' mother used to wear. Because Reynolds loved this fragrance, Alma rarely wore it, saving it for times when she wanted to persuade him do something he didn't care to do, or on special occasions. She counted tonight as a special occasion.

 _"_ Oh, Alma. _Thank you."_

She allowed him to caress and kiss her hair for a bit, before gently pulling away. "Here, darling," she said, turning the key in the ignition. "Time to go home."

~

It was raining when they got to the house. Cyril caught them as they came into the corridor from the garage. Reynolds brightened and put his arms around his sister. She accepted his embrace and his kisses on her cheek but winced at his scratchy beard. Then she nudged him back to take him by the shoulders.

"Well, aren't you wretched?" she noted, and he replied, glowing from the attention, "Yes, Cyril, I've been through an ordeal!"

“How were you even permitted to board the airplane unshaven? You're such a wreck. You look like a vagrant.”

Reynolds rubbed his beard. “I believe they thought I was one of those bearded priests. I do often sense an aura of holiness surrounding me.”

Alma had asked the cook to put several bottles of champagne on ice to celebrate the occasion of Reynolds' return, and as Alma headed to the kitchen to fetch one, Cyril continued with her assessment: "Holy or not, that beard is truly hideous"--Reynolds smiled--"and you need a haircut."

He nodded, so pleased with himself. "You'll do it," he directed her.

"I'm not touching your hair until you've had a bath."

"Oh, that's Alma's job. Where's Alma?" He peeked into the kitchen and then headed toward the front foyer. "Alma?" he called.

Alma was in Reynolds' room, drinking champagne and starting to unpack his luggage. Reynolds never permitted servants to pack up his things. He always insisted on doing it himself. All of his clothing and other items were meticulously arranged in the cases: here was evidence that Reynolds hadn't given up his inner control freak, despite currently disregarding his appearance. 

Cyril appeared, touched her arm and said, "I'll finish that, Alma." Alma took her champagne glass, went into the bathroom, and shut the door.

Reynolds was already there, waiting for her in his loose slacks and shirtsleeves, barefoot, sitting on the wide edge of the marble tub. Rain pelted the window. He watched her as she turned the faucets to fill the tub, attentive, his spine straight.

Alma began to undress him.

"What happened to your shirt?" she asked, touching a spot.

Reynolds studied the fabric and then, after a moment, said, "I believe it's cream sauce. I had lobster thermidor on the airplane."

After briefly pondering this calm response--spilled food on his clothing would have sent the pre-New York Reynolds into a furious knot of anxiety and repulsion--Alma undid the last few buttons and slipped the shirt off his shoulders.

"How did you become such a mess?" she remarked.

"I've been through an  _ordeal_ , Alma. I may never be the same again!"

"Yes, an ordeal. I heard."

Alma stroked his hair, which curled up at the ends because it was too long, and his beard, which looked ridiculous. He  _was_  a mess, but clearly an intentional mess; there was no reason why he couldn't have taken care of himself in New York. He wanted to put on a show of being helpless. And she was so grateful to him for letting himself fall apart, to give her the pleasure of reprimanding him and wrangling him back into a presentable state.

"Get in," she said, after tugging off his slacks and boxers. He slid into the bath; his legs and spine tingling as the hot water surrounded him. Alma knelt on the floor. He handed her the bar of Pear's soap and a wash cloth, and she soaped up his shoulders, the back of his neck, his arms, his chest. She loved washing him, taking hold of various parts of his body, which he offered up without any resistance. This was typically something she only did for him when he was recovering from being ill, but it seemed so right to do it now. She felt such a comfort in taking on this responsibility again, their old routine.

Her arms in hot water past her elbows, Alma washed around his waist and thighs. He shut his eyes, to focus on the sensation of her touch, succumbing to her care, which he'd been denied for so long.

Alma reached across the tub, stretching to get her soapy hands on more of Reynolds' body, and splotching water over the front of her cotton dress. His eyes flickered open, and she smiled at him; that sly, quirky, spirited smile that was all hers.  He took her by the shoulder and kissed her, leaving a wet handprint on the back of her dress.

"Don't splash me so," she chided him. Then she sat back on her heels and asked, "Do you suppose you're clean enough yet?"

He lifted his arms out of the water and considered them, then lifted his long, bony feet, and then said, "Yes. I'm done."

Alma gave him her hand, to help him out. He sat on the edge of the tub and she vigorously toweled him off: his head; that stupid beard; and his skinny body, with chest and legs covered in greying hair.

Alma felt very tender toward him because he looked so pathetic.

Reynolds pulled on his robe, and Alma arranged a dry, fluffed towel over his shoulders, for the haircut. Then she went to get Cyril.

"Ah, my old so-and-so," Reynolds sighed when his sister appeared with a scissors and his leather case of straight razors. Alma leaned in the doorway, glass of champagne in hand, happy to watch.

"Don't cut it too short around my ears," Reynolds continued.

"You'll get whatever you get," Cyril said, putting her hands on his face to hold it straight, pondering an approach to take with his pronounced widow's peak. 

"How you must have missed me," Reynolds mused. "An empty seat at the head of the breakfast table..."

"Alma's been sitting in that chair," Cyril stated, rearranging the towel on his shoulders so it lay as she liked it.

"You have, Alma?" he looked at her. 

"Yes."

"I believe she rather likes it," Cyril continued, running a comb through Reynolds' damp hair. "She plans to keep sitting there, as I understand it."

"Alma!" How could she? If he'd died of heatstroke on the streets of New York or if the airplane had crashed into the ocean, how they'd regret smudging his memory in such a way. He intended to haunt that chair and table after his death.

"Is it true, Alma?"

After a pause and a smile he received: "Yes."

"Well, Alma, you absolutely will not sit in my chair anymore," Reynolds declared, as Cyril combed a wing of silver hair over his eyes. His breakfast wouldn't be right if he sat anywhere else. His entire day would be ruined. He'd sat in that chair nearly every morning for over thirty years. It provided him with a clear view of all the morning's breakfast items, so that he could make the best selections for that particular day and arrange his meal properly. The thought of sitting at any other seat made him dizzy.

"This is what we'll do," Cyril said, snipping the curled ends of Reynolds' hair. "Whoever arrives at breakfast first in the morning may sit at the head of the table, if they choose to do so."

"In that case, it's my place for good--" Alma said, reaching for the champagne bottle, giddy from alcohol, an unusual sensation for her. "--because I don't take an hour every morning to put on my socks and cut my nose hair."

Reynolds wanted to give Alma a solid, threatening glare, but when he turned his head, Cyril fussed at him to be still and then, after a few more snips of her scissors, told him to turn around. She selected a straight razor and carefully trimmed along the back of his neck, the razor scraping with a sound and feeling of a cat’s tongue licking. Then he had to turn forward again when Cyril picked up her scissors, held his chin in her hand, and started to make brisk, energized cuts to the beard, hacking patches through it.

After a bit she ran her hands over the stubble and said, "That will have to do. I can’t guaranteed you won't get cut, but if you do, you’ve no one to blame but yourself."

"Of course, my old so-and so," he replied, still sitting straight upright, delighted by the focused attention of the two women he loved.

Cyril swirled shaving soap over his cheeks and chin, took a long straight razor into her hand, and drew it over his skin. He shut his eyes, enjoying the freedom of having someone else take on this duty. Would he bleed or would he come out unscathed? There was no telling. He had no choice but to trust her.

He felt Cyril reapply the soap for the second round, this time against the grain, and then wipe his face over with a cool cloth and say, “There.”

Reynolds eagerly inspected himself in the mirror about the sink; he hadn't seen his full face in over a month, after all. But there it was: gaunt, with shadows beneath his eyes. He turned his chin this way and that, considering his reflection; pleased with the effect of seven weeks of self-neglect.

"Oh, you poor thing!" Alma said, stroking the hollows of his cheeks, and he smiled because this was the reaction he'd hoped for.

Cyril looked him over and remarked, "You resemble a starved fox..." (at this, Reynolds nodded, pleased) "...perhaps that fox with mange, that crept around the country house last year." 

"Oh, he does, doesn't he?" Alma agreed. "The sick fox that dug up the garden for grubs."

Reynolds winced. He no longer pretended to be strong for Alma; from the night of their first date, she'd begun to chip away at his defenses. Thanks to her mushrooms, she'd succeeded; he belonged to her and was completely submissive to her. Cyril, of course, had noticed his increased vulnerability. When Alma and Cyril got together now, they treated Reynolds with a condescending affection laced with mild cruelty. What a relief that this family dynamic hadn't changed. What a relief to be home!

With that, Reynolds started on to another avenue of discussion: "Alright, thank you for the haircut, Cyril, and the shave. I'll get dressed now, I think. When are we going to dinner? Alma, when's dinner? I'm so hungry..." 

“We’re meeting everyone at eight,” Cyril answered for Alma, as she accepted a glass of champagne from the younger woman. “ And I’ve invited a few of the new models as well, so you can have a look at them, Reynolds.”

At the mention of the models, Cyril turned to Alma, knowing eyes shining in a stern face.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel really shitty that it took me so long to finish this. I've had the whole story outlined but just didn't type it up. and time slipped by. I can't believe it's been since August. .
> 
> Anyhow...this may be the most ridiculous thing I've ever written.

Nearly nine in the evening, and everything was as it should be, at last: Reynolds' arm around Alma's shoulders, her body tucked against his at their table in the restaurant, surrounded by friends.

Reynolds was telling Alma what he thought about her new dress. In a nutshell: he strongly disliked it.

Anticipating Reynolds disliking the dress was part of the joy in making it. Alma didn't bother aiming to please him with her own designs; nothing she made would ever reach his standards. He saw her dressmaking as a silly past-time. She embraced this rigid expectation of her supposed silliness and created styles she knew would irk him. She was quite pleased with the results of this one: an ankle-length sheath dress of daffodil satin (a _"bloody terrible_ color for you, Alma!," he said, and he was correct), with a long slit running right up the thigh.

The best thing about the dress--the thing that made it superior to other clothing made by the House of Woodcock, though Reynolds wouldn't appreciate this feature-- was that it fastened up the side of the torso with a delicate nylon zipper instead of hooks in the back, so the wearer didn't need assistance taking it on and off.  Before the war, some of Alma's favorite skirts and dresses zipped on the side. However, ease of putting on or removing dresses was not a priority of the New Look designers. The comfort of his clients never crossed Reynolds' mind, but the side-placed zipper impressed and delighted many of younger women working at his atelier when Alma told them about it. 

Alma wore her hair in a simple twist, and, as she preferred, no jewelry except for modest earrings. She could have made the dress in a dark satin, so the skin of her legs would glow white through the slit, but she had not, and for this, she noted for him, Reynolds should be thankful.

"You haven't the shape for this dress," he'd told her, gesturing at her narrow hips before they'd left the house. He didn't like the color, he didn't like the cut. The straight neckline flattened her already small breasts and the slit was simply vulgar. Alma ignored this criticism, pulled on a pair of opera gloves, and kissed his cheek. Now, in the restaurant, as Cyril and the others talked in a cozy blur around them, he studied the neckline, fingered the stitching on the bodice. Inspecting her work.

He noticed her staring at him and said, "What?" This was an interjection he often made when he sensed Alma wanted more attention from him than he cared to give her, but tonight he said it more playfully than usual. She loved him this way. If his good mood kept up, she wouldn't have to feed him mushrooms for weeks. Having him back after the prolonged absence reminded her of how proud she was of him, how intoxicating it was to sit in this restaurant with him and his hangers-on-- the most beautiful people in the restaurant, the center of attention. And Reynolds the most beautiful man, despite his age...and famous, too! Alma basked in his glow.

She still sometimes thought of her life before Reynolds, when she did not see herself as beautiful and it seemed, in fact, that there was very little beauty in her life. The Woodcocks lived in a way that may as well have been a fantasy world as far as Alma's past life was concerned. Here she was, still dreaming in it. Anything was possible.

"Nothing," she replied, and then added: "I love you."

He smiled and squeezed her shoulder.

A finger-- _not_ Reynolds'-- found its way through the slit in Alma's skirt. It stroked her knee and thigh, slipping aside the satin, taking advantage of the racy design. A finger separated from Alma's flesh by only a gloss of silk stocking. Alma carefully moved her eyes from Reynolds to the lap and knees of the young woman who'd plopped herself down beside her. A woman with a boyish haircut, sparkling eyes, fingernails painted pearl-pink. And neroli perfume.

Cyril sat at the other end of the table, talking with Nigel and another accountant in lowered voices. Alma longed to catch Cyril's eye: "Help!" Alma thought. But as she sat between Reynolds and Garnet, a flash of excitement made her body tremble and her heart race. This was the same sensation she'd felt on that first evening she'd spent with the Woodcocks, at the country house: Reynolds measuring her as she stood in her slip, Cyril noting the inches. All eyes on Alma. 

Quiet as Alma could be, there was no denying the thrill she felt on the rare occasions she was made to be the center of attention. She was a natural before the camera and on the runway. She could effortlessly maneuver back and forth between roles whenever needed: waitress, model, nurse, wife...

Garnet's finger continued stroking Alma's leg, hidden beneath the tablecloth. There was another new model on Garnet's opposite side, with whom the girl was in conversation, as well as Pippa at the end of the booth. Garnet had not publicly acknowledged Alma again after their initial greeting, and Alma didn't look at her; Alma's eyes were on Cyril.

The waiter brought dessert, a fresh martini for Reynolds and more champagne for the entire table. In the interruption of food being served, Garnet's hand slid over Alma's knee; still, the woman didn't greet Alma or behave in any way that suggested they were anything more than two people who occasionally passed each other at work.

A warm, feminine hand cupping Alma's knee, stroking her thigh: it was quite a challenge for Alma to keep her face blank and calm. Cyril had yet to come to Alma's rescue; the talk at the other end of the table had her no less engaged now that profiteroles and chocolate parfaits were served out.

"What's wrong with you? You don't like it?" Reynolds had been talking about the desserts while Alma's mind wandered off.

"No, I..." she bit her lip and leaned closer to him. Into his ear, she whispered:

"The woman sitting next to me--"

"The lesbian?" 

Startled, Alma lowered her face, wishing to hide her blush. But why should she be ashamed to blush in front of Reynolds? He'd sobbed in her lap more than once. She was much stronger than he was.

"Yes. She--" Alma whispered. "She's put her hand on my leg."

"Tell her to move it, then!" 

Alma gave no reply. Reynolds must have read something in her eyes; he frowned and testily asked, "What _is_ it, Alma?"

"I don't want her to move it. To tell the truth…I like it."

Reynolds tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, looking at her with an expression that could have belonged to a disappointed father.

"You've been spending too much time with my sister." He drained his glass fast and signaled for another.

"No," Alma responded. "Just the right amount of time..."

He shoved the glass away, and his untouched dessert, too, and said in quiet yet clearly irritated voice, "You shan't deceive me, Alma. I know precisely what's going on! And really, it's quite disrespectful of you. It's very hurtful. I've been through such an ordeal, Alma. A true ordeal in New York City. I can't bear this. It's too much for me. You know that. You've betrayed me! You know that, don't you? Don't you, Alma? Have you given any thought to _me?_ To how _I_ might feel about this behavior? No, I don't believe you have. And I dare say, if our positions were reversed, you'd be quite put out, now, wouldn't you?"

"Well, I wouldn't deny you being with a man, if you'd really like to."

Reynolds scowled. _"I don't."_ Then he reached across Alma's lap and slapped the back of Garnet's hand, where it rested on Alma's thigh. The young woman squealed and yanked her hand away. 

"Who _are_ you?" Reynolds demanded, though they'd already introduced one another at the start of dinner. 

"I'm your new fitting model," Garnet said.

"And you're a friend of my sister's, aren't you?"

"Yes." The woman had Alma's hand and was lacing their fingers together. Two pale hands, one perfectly manicured and the other with hangnails and calluses build up from years of sewing. Both beautiful.

"Then go bother my sister and leave my wife alone."

"She's not bothering me," Alma told him. "She's just a new friend for me." She gazed up at Reynolds, at his dark eyes and lupine face. He really did look like a fox or a wolf at times, and moved like one, too, hunched over his sketchbook or sewing, ready to pounce and bite at any interruption. Other times he reminded her of a panther, or some other huge cat, in the way he spread his arms over her shoulders and stretched his long legs, almost purring with comfort and absolute confidence in his own beauty and talent. He most often was like this after a big meal, full and content. 

But Reynolds certainly was not content at this particular moment. He was so obviously unsettled by the realization that Alma wouldn't tell the model to take her hand off of her, as well as clearly unsurprised by this course of events, that Alma felt shame and a stab of pity for him in knowing she'd hurt him so easily. This was not the first time one of his muses had emasculated him in this manner. That Alma-- the one girl out of them all whom he truly loved-- had betrayed him this way especially stung.

How sweet it was for both of them that he was such a masochist!

Alma leaned more tightly against Reynolds now, sliding away from Garnet's reach and putting her arms around his neck. 

"Darling," she said, her lips close enough to brush against his ear, "I was lonely. You were away for so long and I just....I just got lonely. That's all. I should have controlled myself."

"Yes," he nodded, agreeing. "You couldn't have summoned up a bit of self-control?" he asked, with the condescending tone of someone who took pride in their ability to resist all temptations.

"I'm not as strong as you are...in that respect."

He nudged her shoulder back and looked at her with the twitch of a suppressed smile on his lips. She bit her own lip and blushed. They both knew what she'd said was foolishness: that even if he'd ever had much of a sex drive to control in the first place, that train had left the station years ago.

Alma rested her head on his shoulder, stroking his hair. She was grateful for her fun with Garnet, but Reynolds was her only love: her true companion. Their connection was something more than that of a husband and wife, or even a parent and child. They had a fierce, uncategorized sort of love. Alma didn't know any other couple with this sort of all-encompassing love. 

She reached for her champagne glass, but Reynolds held her close to him and handed it to her from the table. She sipped; he brushed back some loose strands that had escaped from her updo, and quietly said, "Alma, if you really must play this kind of game, then please do me the courtesy of allowing me to choose who you'll play it with."

"You don't like Garnet?"

"No, I don't."

"Pippa, then?" Pippa was quite sweet. Alma wouldn't mind if Pippa sat in her lap for a bit.

"No."

"Well, have you anyone in particular in mind?"

"Yes. Cyril."

Alma choked on her champagne, pushed Reynolds away, and covered her face with her hands in hopes of hiding the fact that she'd sprayed champagne right out her nose. She coughed, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and exclaimed, _"What?!"_

"Yes, entertain yourself with her. She's the only woman I trust."

"You don't trust _me_?"

"She's the only woman I trust _with_ you. And she's a very competent lover."

"How would _you_ know that?"

Reynolds stared at Alma for a beat, then replied: "I’ve heard things."

They silently eyed each other for a moment or two as the conversations of the others and the clatter and energy of the restaurant whirled around them. Finally, Alma noted, "She did kiss me."

"Oh?" Reynolds said, holding her by the waist. "Really? At last!"

Startled and delighted, Alma gripped his hand and replied, "Yes. At last."

Reynolds leaned across the table, shoved a half-consumed plate of profiteroles and several empty champagne glasses out of the way, and slapped his hand flat on the table's surface.

"Cyril!" he said. "My old so-and-so! We're going home now, I think!"

Cyril turned away from Nigel and said to her brother, "Very well, then, go."

"No, we need you to come with us."

"I'm in the middle of a conversation."

"But we need you to come with us!" he repeated.

"Cyril..." Alma said quietly, pleadingly, and something about her tone must have resonated with the older woman, who, with a sigh, said, "Fine, then. We'll go."

"The three of us?" Alma remarked. Beside her, Pippa and Garnet chatted, clearly attracted to each other, their excitement illuminating the space around them. The restaurant was a loud and happy place that night.

"Yes," Cyril said, locking eyes with her brother. "That appears to be the case."

~

The rain had ceased, but water still shone on the dark streets and buildings around them. Fog hovered in the night air, giving the city an otherworldly appearance.

Reynolds drove. How he’d missed his powerful Bentley while he was away. Yes, that was another miserable aspect of his time in New York: not being able to burn off stress with a long drive in the country at high speed. A leisurely walk hadn’t been possible for him in New York either; the weather was much too hot, the streets too dirty. He didn’t know the neighborhoods, and he dreaded the unfamiliar. And so: no driving and no evening strolls for Reynolds. He’d been unable to choke down a single bite; he’d been exhausted but unable to sleep. And there’d been no one to fuss over him or care for him. He’d lived like a caged animal: restless, helpless, and terribly alone.

Being banished to New York was the second-worst experience of Reynolds’ life. The only thing worse was when his mother died. She’d been ill for a very long time, and while he cared for her as the end approached, he’d convinced himself he’d be able to manage when her time finally came. Instead, he’d been left in a state of indescribable agony and despair. Not only could he not sleep or eat, he couldn’t move. He lay motionless in his bed for days. His mind and soul detached from his body. It was a subtle yet very odd feeling…hardly a feeling at all. He’d disappeared from the realm of the living to wander around in a nebulous place where his mother was near and at the same time, _wasn’t._ Cyril eventually roused him back to the surface by pulling him from bed, bathing him and dressing him—because he had no interest in doing these things himself—and ordering him back to work. But he was in no state to see clients: he couldn’t stop crying. He cried silently and constantly, tears rolling down his face day after day. It was a mystery as to how his body produced so many tears for so long. The only thing that stopped it was Cyril slapping him across the face repeatedly: that turned the faucets off, fast.

Reynolds shifted to a lower gear, slowing as the car approached the house. It had been years since Cyril last slapped him. She probably assumed Alma did the job now. He’d have to make it clear to them that this was a responsibility that must be parsed out between the two of them. Simply _being_ Reynolds was a complex and serious endeavor. He possessed a great deal of self-control and a deeply engrained routine…but the world was a chaotic, unpredictable place. In order for his gifts to reach their full potential, it was imperative that the women around him provide him with the necessary support. This support included such things as lapsang tea whenever he desired it, and praise, and the occasional flick of a metaphorical whip.

In the house, Reynolds took Alma’s hand and they went into the living room. He turned on a lamp, waved toward the bar cart and said, “A _digestif_ , Alma. Cognac, I think.” He removed his suit jacket and undid his bowtie, laying both across the back of a wingback chair.

Cyril entered the room; she sat on the couch and Reynolds joined her.

“Would you like a cognac, Cyril?” Alma called. She received no reply. Glancing at the siblings, she saw that their heads were lowered together in a pool of gold light from the single lamp, immersed in a close, secret conversation meant only for the two of them.

Alma prepared a cognac for Reynolds and unwrapped a tiny Underberg bottle—her preferred after-dinner drink—and poured it into a cordial glass. When she approached the couch with the glasses, she found Cyril seated at one end, legs crossed, and Reynolds—long-limbed, relaxed, legs stretched out across the cushions—lolling in her arms.

Cyril stroked Reynolds’ hair and cradled his upper body, his head resting on the arm of the couch. Though Alma knew she’d never seen the two of them as physically close as this, the vision felt very familiar, and it did not surprise her.

She took a sip from her glass and placed Reynolds’ cognac on the table before the couch.

“Alma, come here,” Cyril said, allowing Reynolds to rest in her left arm as she reached with her right to shake a cigarette from the pack on the end table.

Alma stepped to the table and lit a match for Cyril without being asked. The woman smiled and said, “Show Reynolds your dress.”

“I’ve already seen the bloody foolish dress, my old so-and-so,” Reynolds muttered teasingly, closing his eyes, pleased and comfortable.

“Look up, Reynolds,” Cyril told him, having ignored what he’d said. “Alma, show him the zipper.”

Alma turned and gestured with a playful flourish at the secret zipper.

Reynolds shut his eyes again, hummed a bit, then reached for Alma’s waist to pull her nearer.

Alma was very close to them now, standing above them. When Cyril exhaled smoke, Alma tasted it on her lips.

Reynolds fingered the zipper nonchalantly—though he certainly _wasn’t_ nonchalant in this case— then grasped the zipper pull, slowly tugging it down, down…until the dress opened like a shell around Alma’s upper body.

She placed her palm on Reynolds’ cheek.

“Do you like it?” she asked, surprised when her voice came out as a raspy whisper.

“It’s quite nice, Alma. Really,” he said quietly. Then he sat up and pulled her onto his lap.

Alma found herself cuddled between the two of them, Reynolds holding her and Cyril so close beside them. As they adjusted themselves and settled into each other, Alma felt and heard Cyril’s wool pencil skirt rough against the satin of Alma’s gown.

Cyril crushed the end of her cigarette in the ashtray on the side table, then slid an elegant arm across the back of the couch and curved her hand over Reynolds’ shoulder. She kissed Alma’s forehead. Alma could smell the woman’s perfume: iris, fougère, perhaps some vetiver. Reynolds and Cyril shared—and sometimes fought over-- a collection of roughly a dozen men’s colognes: Blenheim Bouquet and English Fern, D.R. Harris’s Classic cologne, Crown Eau du Russe, and many others. The scents smelled differently on each of them, and the one Cyril wore, Alma couldn’t identify.

The champagne, and the blast of pungent liquor she’d just consumed, left Alma dizzy. Pressed against both Reynolds and Cyril, she felt as small and safe as a child.

She rolled some of the pearls in Cyril’s pearl necklace between her lips. She took a pearl between her teeth. It was gritty and tasted like the ocean, warmed by Cyril’s skin.

There was a clatter in the hall, and some girlish laughter; then Pippa and Garnet stumbled into the doorway, drunk and giddy.

“Cyril!” Garnet said. “Won't you come upstairs with us? Please?”

“You can very well see I’m occupied at the moment, can’t you? Ladies, you may go upstairs and begin without me. I’ll follow shortly.”

Garnet pouted while Pippa clutched her hand and giggled. Alma had never seen her dear friend so flustered and happy….and _excited_.

“Upstairs,” Reynolds muttered when the young women were out of earshot. He ran his hands over the smooth, warm skin of Alma’s back. The three of them crushed Alma's partially removed dress between their bodies, the bright yellow satin shining like phosphorus in the lamp’s golden dusk-light.

Reynolds wasn’t used to holding Alma on his lap like this; his thighs were starting to go numb.

“I’d very much like to go to bed now, I think,” he declared.

None of them moved. Alma’s head rested on Cyril’s shoulder, her face pressed against Cyril’s neck. Cyril occasionally placed kisses along Alma’s hairline. No wonder Reynolds so often acted like a spoiled child; just these brief moments of submission with both Woodcocks thrilled Alma. She began to wonder just what sort of games Reynolds had in mind for her and his sister...

Reynolds slid his arms around Alma’s waist and tugged her so that she followed him to standing.

“Come put us to bed, Cyril,” he commanded, clutching Alma close to him, holding her dress up with a fistful of yellow satin.

“I haven't the time for anything so ridiculous tonight, Reynolds,” Cyril tersely replied.

As he stared down at his sister accusingly, Alma glanced at Reynolds with raised eyebrows, only partially surprised that he would request something so stupid.

“I think you do have time, Cyril. I’m very sure of it. And I deserve it. If you recall, I’ve been through a tremendous ordeal, taken on entirely for the sake of this family!”

Cyril stood up, went to the wingback chair near the fireplace, and picked up Reynolds’ jacket and tie.

“And I’m certain you’ll never allow me to forget it.” She frowned and said, “I dislike indulging your childish fantasies. They’re perverse.”

“I don’t believe that’s true, Cyril…” Reynolds took Alma’s hand and they followed Cyril up the stairs. “It’s not true at all! You like them quite a bit!”

At the top of the stairs, Cyril turned around, shoved Reynolds’ jacket at him and briskly said: “Go to your room.”

Alma and Reynolds did as they were told. Inside, Reynolds waved a graceful hand at Alma’s dress. He didn't need to tell her what this meant. She wiggled her hips a little, until the dress slipped down her legs to pool around her ankles.

“Step out,” Reynolds said. He knelt and gathered the dress up in his arms, then walked to the bed and spread it out. Alma followed him and stood beside him in her underthings and stockings.

He turned parts of the dress inside-out and ran his fingers over the seams and darts. Then, after his assessment, said: “You’ve done good work, Alma. This is a very simple style, but it appears you’ve mastered it. So in that respect, bravo. But it’s ugly. It’s an ugly dress, Alma. Why on earth did you make it?”

“For fun,” she said.

_“Fun?”_

After a quick, silent, sparkling-eyed stare-down, she replied, “Yes.”

“Well, Alma, the dresses we make aren’t _fun._ They shouldn’t _be_ fun. When you start thinking about fun, you run the risk of losing any semblance of beauty. As you can see, this dress proves my point.”

Alma shrugged. “Well, I like it. I think it’s very nice.”

“If that’s the case, then please put it away with your things because I don’t want to see it. It will be a distraction. Its ugliness will distract me, Alma.”

Alma scooped the dress up and took it to the closet. When she returned, Cyril was in the room and Reynolds was changing into his pajamas.

“Go wash your face, Alma,” Cyril said.

Alma went into the bathroom, cleaned her teeth, smeared cold cream over her face, wiped it up, and rinsed her face with water. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror: her broad face was naturally very pale.  Her eyelashes and eyebrows were light colored and disappeared on her face if she didn’t apply make-up to them. It was the same case with her lips: even they were pale.

She came back into the room. Cyril gestured at a chair; Alma sat. Without a word, the woman began to remove pins from Alma’s hair. Then she took the paddle brush from the vanity and began to brush Alma’s hair as though brushing her sister-in-law's hair was an ordinary, mundane task she took on everyday.

“Alma,” Cyril said quietly as she worked the brush through some knots in Alma’s dry blonde hair. “I enjoy riding dressage, when I have the time. Did you know that?”

"No," Alma replied.

"I don't get to do it much these days. You could borrow my tack, Alma, if you like.”

“Thank you, Cyril,” Alma responded. “But I’m not much for riding.”

“Nevertheless, I’m sure you can find good use for a dressage whip—“ she gave the brush a last pass through Alma’s hair, then set it back on the vanity—“If you use your imagination.”

Alma thought about this for a moment, then smiled.

Reynolds returned from the bathroom. He went right to the bed, pulled back the covers, and got in.

“Alma, go put on your nightgown,” Cyril directed her.

“She doesn’t wear one,” Reynolds said faintly from the bed.

“I don’t.” Alma confirmed with a nod. She bent over in the chair to roll her stockings off her legs. She had already unhooked her bra by the time she noticed that both Woodcocks were staring at her: Cyril standing beside the vanity, Reynolds propped up on his elbows in bed. As soon as Alma realized that she had the focused attention of both siblings, she immediately regretted that she hadn’t put on more of a show for them. Ah, well…next time.

Now nude-- and still too happily drunk to be abashed about the fact that she was naked for the first time in front of Cyril-- Alma climbed into the bed, Reynolds smiling and guiding her down into his arms. He stretched out on his back and pulled Alma face-down on top of him.

Cyril came over and tightened the sheets around them, tucking the corners beneath the mattress. Alma was tucked so snuggly that she felt like a plate covered with cling film. 

Cyril kissed both Alma and Reynolds on the cheeks and said, “There. Goodnight.”

“No lullaby? No bedtime story?” Alma playfully asked.

“There are books on the nightstand, right here,” Reynolds said. He would have gestured to them or picked one up, but his arms were so tightly tucked around Alma’s body that he couldn’t move them.

"Yes, those are my books! Please read to us, Cyril!" Alma's voice was muffled because she was pressed so close against Reynold's chest. 

“Very well.” Cyril picked up the books. “ _Histoire d'O."_ She looked at her sister-in-law. "I'm not reading this aloud, Alma."

"Why not?!" Alma protested.

"Reynolds isn't ready for it."

"I'm not ready for _what_?" Reynolds asked, lifting his face from its burrow in Alma's hair.

Ignoring him, Cyril read from the cover of the second book " _Sons and Lovers_. Ah, D.H. Lawrence. I never did read this one.“

“It's about coal miners in Nottinghamshire,” Alma told her.

“That sounds charming,” Cyril noted, “but I have more children to attend to in my room, as you know." She put the books back on the night table, stood up, and walked to the bedroom door, her shoes producing the steady, familiar tapping that both Reynolds and Alma listened for all day, always, with a mix of fear and delight.

Cyril switched off the lamp as she left the room and shut the door behind her.

 Alma and Reynolds could hear a new round of rain hitting the windows on either side of the bed.

“Alma,” Reynolds quietly said. “I missed you very much when I was away—“

“And I missed you, darling.”

“I missed you, and I wanted to tell you so many things. I want to tell you everything, Alma.”

“Of course,” she said. “Tell me everything.”

In the dark quiet room, Reynolds started with day one of his trip to New York, with his initial airplane flight and arrival in the city. From here, he began to talk about his following day, starting with what the staff at Barbara Rose’s house tried to feed him for breakfast. He described in detail his initial concept for Barbara's dress and how she didn’t like it because she wanted something exactly like a dress she’d seen in Paris, and how he bluntly told her that it didn’t work for her body at all, but she wouldn’t hear it, and there was a terrible row.

That was Reynolds’ report of his first twenty-four hours in New York. Next, he began telling Alma about his second day’s inedible breakfast and the Herculean tasks he was supposed to complete, including persuading Barbara to see things his way (which was, of course, the only correct way).

Reynolds actually had a very rich and soothing voice; if he wasn’t in a cranky mood, listening to him could be quite pleasant. (He spoke so nicely, and was so tall and slender and handsome that, perhaps, he could have been a famous film actor in another life.) He talked and talked in his lovely voice, and about such utterly boring things, that before he’d finished describing the third day of his New York ordeal, Alma was fast asleep in his arms. And, to be honest, he talked himself to sleep as well, with the pattering of the rain and the sound of Alma’s steady breathing so close. Yes, Reynolds was certain: he’d never travel so far or for so long ever again…unless he could take Alma with him. He didn't ever want to be without her. He _must_ have her by his side...always! 

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for any historical or fashion-related inaccuracies and any over-Americanized language. I did my best. 
> 
> If you notice anything that's off (like, idk, gear shift vs. gear lever, etc.), please let me know and I'll fix it.


End file.
